Once and Again
by Down the Road and Up the Hill
Summary: Belle and Rumpelstiltskin have an undeniable passion growing between them. Meanwhile, in Storybrooke, Mr. Gold attempts to save Belle-although he's not sure what he'll encounter once he's found her. On hiatus.
1. Interruptions

_Author's Note: I'm not much of a fan fiction writer, but Belle and Rumpelstiltskin have inspired me ridiculous amounts, and I've loved reading the fanfics of other authors about them, and this is my endeavor to write my own. The chapters will alternate between fairy tale land and Storybrooke. Please review, particularly with any comments as to what you'd like to see in the future or any critiques. I hope you enjoy!_

...

"Won't you take a break from spinning for a while? You haven't eaten all day." Belle's little hard shoes echoed on the wood floor as she walked into the room, balancing tea, a meal, plates, and cups all in two arms. She gently set her load on the table, and cocked her head at Rumpelstiltskin, in his ordinary position at his wheel.

He squinted at her through the sunlight that streamed in through the windows. Since all the curtains had finally been taken down, his eyes had only begun to adjust to the new lighting. "I see you've gotten less clumsy, dearie. Didn't even drop a thing on your way here from the kitchen?" His voice was a trill of giggles.

"Oh hush." Despite her words, Belle joined in with his laughter anyway. She pulled out a chair for him at the extravagantly-large dining table. "Now come eat."

"Only because you insist." He abandoned his wheel and took the offered chair, while Belle sat across from him. "Though I'm not sure who you are to be giving me orders in my own castle."

"Apparently I'm your nanny," Belle wore a mischievous half-smile. "I'm to clean up after you, fetch you straw, tell you stories, and cook for you, after all. Someone needs to look after you, I suppose. You're too skinny!" she chided.

As the last statement left her lips, Rumpelstiltskin watched Belle's arm reach across the table, her long, ivory fingers encircle his wrist. His mouth opened slightly, unable to think of a coherent response to her words; his eyes fixated themselves on her hand holding his wrist.

Belle did not seem to notice. She shook his wrist. "See? Too thin." Staring at Rumpelstiltskin, waiting for one of his "quips" about the lack of children eat or something, she did not let go of him.

After another moment, realizing that she expected some sort of reaction from him, Rumpelstiltskin met Belle's inquisitive blue eyes, and only managed to produce a weak smile. In return, Belle smiled back, one full of warmth. Reluctantly, she released his wrist and picked up her fork. Rumpelstiltskin did the same, doing his best not to betray the emotions that her touch tended to bring to the surface.

...

After the quiet dinner, Rumpelstiltskin returned to his spinning wheel, while Belle lit a few candles throughout the room, watching the sunset wistfully out of the window.

"No deals to make this evening?" Belle asked, perching herself on the wide window-seat nearest to the wheel. She picked up a few strands of thread, glimmering in the candlelight, and begun to idly braid them together.

"No deals." Rumpelstiltskin's voice is reserved, pensive, trying to focus entirely on the pursuit in front of him, rather than the girl beside him.

"Good. I like it better when you're here. This big castle gets lonely when there's no one else around." She curled up in the seat, wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned against the window. As her chest rose and fell with her breathing, the glass pane turned white and warm in front of her.

Rumpelstiltskin did not-could not-respond. Belle stared out of the window, at the slowly brightening half-moon in the sky, and Rumpelstiltskin stared at Belle. He fumbled for his old cockiness. "Oh dearie, your lies aren't making you any prettier. We both this place is far pleasant without the _beast_ prowling about." When he said _beast_, he made his hands into teasing claws and bared his teeth.

To his disappointment, Belle just tittered with laughter. "Oh quit it with the beast stuff already. I might've been a tad afraid of you when you first brought me here-you know, all the tales of terrifying, baby-stealing Rumpelstiltskin-but I am certainly not afraid any longer." She held her head high, looking him directly in the eye with a small half-smile, as if daring him to challenge her.

"Apparently I've been treating you a little too nicely, haven't I, dearie?"

Belle just shook her head at him, smile never faltering. "Well then, continue on ignoring me." From underneath the rose-patterned cushion she was snuggling into, she pulled out a thick navy-colored book. Opening it near the middle, Belle inhaled the scent of the creamy, dusty pages. "I love the smell of old books," she sighed.

He again failed to properly focus on his spinning. "What are you reading?" he asked, trying to sound casual, uninterested.

"It's about dragons, I think. The different types, which ones are dangerous, how to kill them. It's really rather entertaining. Father never let me read books like this back home."

Rumpelstiltskin twisted his golden face into a mocking mask of shock. Eyes wide, mouth open, he exclaimed, "You mean he managed to order you around? And to think I, the menace of the kingdom, is unable to!"

She ignored his little outburst. "Father said books like this weren't proper reading for a lady of my station. He thought they would give me nightmares."

"And now to think you're living one!" he hissed, followed by a high-pitched chuckle. But all of a sudden, Belle's hand was on his knee, and his laughter stopped. She leaned in close to him.

"Stop trying to convince me of my unhappiness. It is no joy staying here, but as I've told you before, I find it better than being the wife of Gaston." After a little squeeze of his leg, she let go, refocusing her attention on the words in front of her. Rumpelstiltskin noticed she was using the little bit of braided gold thread as a place marker for whatever page she was on. He tried instead to watch his wheel, rather than Belle's delicate white hands occasionally moving with every turn of the page.

"Have you ever seen a dragon?" Belle asked, breaking the silence again.

"Constant conversation is not a part of our contract."

Belle peered at him over the top of her book, content to wait for an answer. Rumpelstiltskin looked back at her, doing his utmost to maintain an angry glare. Finally, he responded, "I have seen many a dragon, dearie. Eliminated a few, too, in exchange for the right price."

"Is it hard to do? It says here that dragons are impervious to magic."

"That is why deals are so important. When a brave young warrior begs me to save his ailing princess or help him find true love, I do it in exchange for him to kill the dragon. Even in those rare instances when my magic is not sufficient, I lack no method of completing a deal."

Belle bit her lip, looking thoughtful, _and_, Rumpelstiltskin thought, _somewhat unsettled_. "Is that what's going to happen to our deal? The next time someone comes to you, and they need a woman for something or other, will you trade me in exchange for something from them?"

The word left his mouth in a sharp growl before he could prevent it. "Never."

"Good." Belle grinned.

...

Silence finally settled between the pair. Rumpelstiltskin resumed his spinning, and Belle, her reading. Time passed, and Rumpelstiltskin's concentration was eventually broken by soft snoring. Belle was asleep, her book left open in her lap. Or, rather, his book, Rumpelstiltskin decided, considering that it had come from his library, after all. He sighed. She seemed uncomfortable, her body all contorted to squeeze against the window. It likely wasn't warm there, either; the cold glass made goosebumps evident across Belle's arms. Carefully, as though he was dealing with a figure of porcelain instead of flesh, he picked her up, one arm underneath her legs and one supporting her back. Her head lolled and the snoring stopped, but Belle did not awaken. Rumpelstiltskin remembered the last time-the only time-he had held her like this-when she had fallen from his ladder, tearing down the curtains. The light poured into the room, and he caught her. Like then, she felt as though she weighed nothing. _Perhaps she is the one who should be eating more_, he considered.

He carried her out of the dining room, the door swinging open as he approached. At first he headed in the direction of her room-the dungeon, as it was more informally referred to-but changed his mind. Instead, he took her up the stone stairway, careful not to knock her head against any of the narrow walls. The door to one of the first rooms hung open, undoubtedly from when she had cleaned it earlier that day. It was one of the more modest bedrooms-now dust free-with a forest-green carpet and matching bedspread. The curtains lay on the floor in front of the windows, which made Rumpelstiltskin smile in amusement. He turned to the bed, gently setting down Belle's sleeping form upon it. For a few minutes, he perched on the bed beside her and slowly reached out, his long-nailed fingertips brushed aside a few strands of hair.

Belle began to snore again, and Rumpelstiltskin left, closing the door quietly behind him.


	2. Asylum

He runs his fingertip around the rim of the tea cup. A repetitive motion, familiar, and comforting. His skin was too hardened by time to break upon the mere broken edge of porcelain. Dregs of tea sit in the bottom. Before Moe French had stolen it, it sat behind closed cupboard doors, collecting dust from disuse. But after losing it once, Mr. Gold never intended on letting the cup out of his sight again.

"Belle," he whispers. Her name was like a secret prayer, one that he had not spoken in a long, long time. Sometimes he managed to go hours, even days, without thinking about her-a vast improvement, he considered, from having her on his mind of every conscious moment. And then dreaming about her blue eyes, soft hair, ivory skin when he managed to snatch some sleep. But it was easier in this world, to pretend that she had never existed, to forget. He took his little satisfactions, like taking French's ugly truck, a minor punishment for a horrendous crime committed in another life.

But the theft-that was different, changed everything. Of course, he did not care about a few stolen trinkets, some dishes and cutlery, but the cup was precious. Its disappearance brought up too many memories that he had been trying to evade for so long. Regina's complicity in the crime mattered not; she merely had her suspicions about him confirmed.

He continues to run his finger around the cup's rim.

Another whisper, another plea. "Belle."

Mr. Gold decides he should pay Mr. French another visit.

...

A girl in a dirty shift with dirty hair, locked away in a shadowed basement. A little barred window near the ceiling allows the smallest bit of sunlight in. She sits as close to it as she can, craving it. When night falls, it is the worst.

She prays and pleas, too, although she does not know well enough what she is begging for to give it words, say it aloud.

...

Moe French cowers as best as he can in the hospital bed, when Mr. Gold saunters into the room. The click-clack of the cane is too familiar to him now. Even with the I.V. in his arm, French tries to cover his face from any beatings he is sure are coming to him. Mr. Gold stops, sits in the chair beside the bed.

"Hello, Mr. French," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"What the hell else do you want from me? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You got everything back though! Please don't-don't hit me again," he whimpers.

Mr. Gold smothers a chuckle. _This man is pathetic_, he thinks, _but I must turn to the task at hand_. "I want to know about your daughter." Even though Belle was dead, it was likely French still had some vestigial memories of her. Despite the power of the curse, even the memory of a daughter was impossible to eradicate. And even if it was possible-well, Emma Swan was starting to change everything. "I want to know how she died." He watches French's eyes widen. They are as blue as Belle's, it occurs to Mr. Gold.

French sounds even more pathetic when he answers, as if he's on the verge of tears. Likely he'd be crying already, if it didn't hurt his face so much. "Sophie? Sophie's dead?"

Mr. Gold leans in close. "Yes, Mr. French. I want to know how you killed her."

"Killed her? I never-" French fumbles for fabricated memories, trying to put the mismatched pieces together. "I put her away. I...I think...she was crazy. Dangerous. Came back from a trip to Europe-God only knows what happened to her there-And she was different, changed. She is...she was in the asylum." He pauses, gathering his thoughts, considering what he's just told Mr. Gold, the daughter he hadn't thought about in so long. "But Sophie's dead?"

Gold does not answer. Instead, he ponders this new information. If French assumed his daughter to be alive before the curse hit, that was likely why he believed so now. And if French's daughter-Sophie-Belle-was alive then..._And what is this about an asylum_? Gold knew every nook and cranny of this little town, and he had never even heard of the existence of an asylum.

Abruptly, he stands up. Supporting his weight on his cane, he bends over, hisses in French's ear. "I suppose you will not tell anyone what we discussed here?" Without waiting for a response, he hurries out of the room, as fast as he can on his injured leg.

...

He despises coming here, and yet here he is. Ignoring the doorbell, Mr. Gold hammers on the white wooden door with his cane. After a few seconds, he hammers again, harder, more insistently.

The door finally swings open. Regina's perfectly-lipsticked red lips twist into a sneer. "So eager for another little chat already, Mr. Gold?"

"Indeed." He pushes past her, slams the door closed behind him. "I would like to hear about this little asylum I've just heard about. The doctors at the hospital don't seem to know a thing about it. And neither do I. Enlighten me, Miss Mayor."

Regina's smirk quickly turns into a scowl. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." But he can see the lie, so evident in her dark eyes.

"If you don't tell me where it is, I am sure someone will. For the right price, I can buy anyone into telling me about it. Someone in this God-forsaken town must know." Mr. Gold moves closer to Regina, attempting to intimidate her. "Is that what you want? For me to go asking everyone around Storybrooke about your little asylum?"

Regina's tone is even, measured, though she takes a noticeable step back. "What are you offering me?"

"This isn't deal-making time, dear. This is not one of our little _games_ we're playing."

"And what exactly is it you want with the asylum?"

Glints of gold shine in his teeth when he leers at her. "I think you know exactly _who_ I want."

She considers. The moments that pass are agonizing. Finally, she says, "All right. You stay away from the asylum, don't speak a word about it to anyone. Be discreet, keep her hidden and quiet. The town remains peaceful, unaware. The last thing I need is you to go making problems for me. And she's all yours."

"Done."

...

_A/N: Again, please read and leave some helpful/encouraging/critique-filled reviews! Feel free to tell me what you'd like to see!_


	3. Waiting

Belle waited in the north tower when she wasn't cleaning, waited for Rumpelstiltskin to return. He had left four nights ago, mumbling something about a deal to be struck. The top of the north tower was a small, round room, with mahogany floors that now gleamed, thanks to Belle. Whenever Rumpelstiltskin was gone, it was her new habit to come here, sit by the window watching for him, and attempt to distract herself with a book. The dragon book was long finished, and now that she was alone, Belle comforted herself with a old novel of a princess and her knight. But, naturally, she would not let Rumpelstiltskin catch her reading a story like that; his teasing would be unbearable.

A soft smile lit her face, while she thought of her master. If he saw what she was reading, he would giggle, and probably say something about how he was such a monster, keeping her from finding true love with some handsome prince, and take mock-pity on her for her "plight" here with him. His dark eyes would glitter, not with malice, but with mischief. And then she would respond with her typical answer, that she was content here, and that he was no monster, and that princes were overrated anyway.

_Here I am, having a fake conversation with him simply because he's not here_. Belle frowned, and trained her eyes back onto the words of her book.

...

"And what are you doing in the cold, dark tower all by yourself, dearie?" Rumpelstiltskin called out, as he flung the door open with a wave of his hand. "You couldn't have been waiting for me? Could you?" He did not bother to suppress the glee in his voice.

Belle's eyelids fluttered open, startled awake with a gasp. She clutched her chest, waiting for her heartbeat to slow. "I didn't know you were back already," she said, and ran her fingers through her hair in an attempt to undo some of the tangles, pointedly ignoring his query about whether or not she was waiting for him so eagerly. When she stood, she quickly tried to straighten out the wrinkles in her plain cotton nightgown that she had changed into hours before, after deciding that it was unlikely that Rumpelstiltskin would return that evening.

"Dressed for bed so late?" he asked her, raising both his eyebrows. He nodded in the direction of the window behind her, where the sun was rising in a glorious mix of glowing reds and shining oranges and too-bright sunny yellows.

Belle looked over her shoulder. "Oh-I-I didn't realize." She smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I suppose I fell asleep."

So close to the window, the sunlight steadily peeking in behind her, Belle's figure was illuminated. _Beautiful_, the word echoed in Rumpelstiltskin's mind. He was also grateful that his unique hue of skin did not allow for blushing. For in such lighting, Belle's nightgown was nearly translucent, every outline of every curve made evident. But she did not seem to notice, and Rumpelstiltskin could not quite manage to turn his gaze elsewhere.

"So how did the deal-making go?" Belle inquired, taking a few hesitant steps toward him.

His black eyes-no, they had hints of red and green, as well-followed her intently. "Ah." He remembered the paper wrapped package in one of his hands, and stuffed it behind his back. "I might have a gift for you, dearie!"

Belle craned her neck, attempted to get a glimpse of whatever he was hiding. "What is it?"

He wagged a finger at her. "Ah, ah, ah. What is the magic word?"

She took another few steps forward, until she was standing just in front of him. Rumpelstiltskin swallowed hard, though did not-would not-allow himself to be cowered by such a small, thin young woman. But then Belle looked down, demure, fisting her hands into her nightgown. Gently, he placed his hand under her chin, lifted up her face to his. "Please? Is please the magic word?" she finally said. Her cheeks were pink, and she nibbled on her lower lip.

For his part, Rumpelstiltskin had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life. Early morning, tousle-haired Belle was entirely _herself_-no pretensions of princess or maid or even his caretaker. Just _her,_ a lovely young woman with sleep-filled eyes who wanted to know what he was hiding for her behind his back. He drew back a step.

"I struck a deal a few days ago with a rather notorious fellow-the muffin man."

"The muffin man?" Belle paused a moment, concentrating. "Well, that's ridiculous. There are however many muffin men in all of these kingdoms-"

Rumpelstiltskin halted her with a finger against her lips. "Ah, dearie. Not just any muffin man. The Drury Lane muffin man."

"And what's so special about this one?"

"Only the best baker to ever live!" He giggled. "Puts your pastries to shame, really." At Belle's offended expression, he continued, "His wife was near dead after popping out a pair of little boys-"

Belle clapped a hand over her mouth. "And you took one of them to save their mother?"

"I could have. I wanted to, really, but then I thought about my patient little housekeeper all by herself in the big, scary castle, and I reconsidered." With that, he presented her with the package.

Now that she was closer, Belle could inhale the delicious scent emanating from the plain, brown packaging. "Blueberry!" she squealed, taking the package from Rumpelstiltskin and unwrapping it in haste. Inside sat a dozen muffins, still warm from the oven.

"Not just blueberry. There's also cinnamon and cherry and chocolate." He grinned, the crooked teeth flashing, looking altogether pleased with himself.

Belle took a blueberry muffin from the wrapping. "So the muffin man truly makes the best muffins there are?"

He nodded.

"I hope they don't disappoint then." She bit into the muffin, and as she swallowed, let out a low moan. "Oh, this is heavenly!"

Rumpelstiltskin clapped his hands. "I knew it!"

"So, is that the deal you made with him then? Saving his wife in exchange for a few muffins? That doesn't seem much like you. Are you sure you don't have a stolen baby, too?"

"Now dearie, don't you agree that these muffins are worth far more than a silly baby? I can get a baby from nearly anyone. I certainly do not need one from the muffin man."

"Agreed," Belle said, after she had polished off the last bit of blueberry muffin. "And it looks as though you indulged in one yourself during your trip back," she laughed, reaching out and brushing a few crumbs from Rumpelstiltskin's black leather vest. "I suppose I do not need to make us breakfast, then?"

"No, not this morning. I will take some tea in the dining room, however. After you make yourself decent, of course." He gestured toward her nightgown, and watched Belle flush bright red. Apparently she had not taken note of it until now.

"Tea it is then!" Belle scampered out of the room, trying to hide her embarrassment.

Rumpelstiltskin looked around his tower, to see if anything had been put out of place by the girl, and picked up a thin romance novel sitting on the windowsill. "Where did I acquire this sappy rag?" he muttered, flipping through its page, though he was suddenly disturbed by footsteps behind him. He whirled around. "Yes, dearie?" he said to the still-nightgown-clad girl in the doorway.

"Thank you for the muffins, Rumpelstiltskin," she replied, before prancing away again on her bare feet.

Oh yes, he would lose his reputation rather soon if on every deal he considered Belle's feelings beforehand. _But, _he thought, _those smiles are nearly worth it._

_..._

_A/N: Agggghhhh so much fluff! I think I need to add some angst, don't you? In any case, your reviews are always read and very much appreciated, so please keep reviewing with any encouragement or critiques!_


	4. Scars

The telephone rings. An annoying, sharp _BRRIIING BRRIIING_, one that makes Mr. Gold wish he had disconnected his telephone line years ago. An uncivilized way of communication, irritating someone until they finally decided to answer, and even then, picking up the phone without knowing who was calling. His policy was never to make deals over the phone, only in person, when he can stare someone in the eye and make sure they are telling the truth, sincere in their promise to keep up their end of the contract.

Even so, he has been waiting for this call for two days. After another _BRRRIIING_ that makes him wish he were deaf as well as crippled, he answers. "Hello," he says, never having been one for pleasantries.

"Mr. Gold." Regina's clipped tone is too recognizable on the other end. "Is this a convenient time for you?"

He sets the phone down, limps to the front shop-door without even taking the time to grab his cane for aid. Flicks the "Open" sign around, to "Closed." Back at the desk, he picks up the phone again. "Yes."

"Good. I'm bringing something over you might like to take a look at. As I told you earlier, Mr. Gold, be discreet. And I believe I'll be adding an addendum to our deal." Before Gold can respond, there is a loud click, and Regina is gone. She seems to dislike the phone as much as he does._ Of course, it is much more difficult to scare and threaten and intimidate when the person is not in front of you,_ he muses, though a worry gnaws at the corner of his mind, wondering what else Regina could want from him. Though the deal, as reckoned earlier, was too good to be true, and Gold knew it.

...

A knock at the back door, not the front, where customers and clients would typically enter. As he passes by the window, on the way to unlock the door, he sees Regina's shiny black car has pulled around back. _Away from prying eyes, likely_, he thinks. He turns the copper key into the keyhole, listens to the metal latch unclasp. Before he has a chance to, Regina has opened the door, stepped into his shop.

"Hello, Madam Mayor." The disdain is evident in his tone, though not the words themselves.

"Good evening Mr. Gold. We have a transaction to finish?"

"Yes. Where is...?" he trails off.

"_Sophie's _in the car. Sophie is her name. We can't have any fairy-tale names flying around Storybrooke, now can we? Especially with this phase that Henry's going through."

"Indeed, I do recall secrecy was part of our deal. I have no qualms with that." _Sophie_, he thinks, _means wisdom. Much more appropriate than beauty_. "Now what was this about an addendum?"

"Well I do believe I am being short-changed a little on this particular agreement. You get what you want, and I don't get anything, really, except a promise of you keeping your mouth shut about what I'm giving you. I think I've earned a little more than that, don't you?" She raises one dark, perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"I'm not in the habit of changing a deal once it's been struck. You know that, do you not, Regina?" His voice never raises above a conversational level, despite the tension, the heat welling up within his chest at the presumption of this woman, disgust as she uses Belle as a mere bargaining chip.

"I'm not asking for much more, simply an answer to another one of my questions."

"I'm listening."

"Why did you help Emma Swan become sheriff? What does her presence here have anything to do with your interests?" Regina's voice rose, unquenched anger rising to the surface. "Did you bring her here? Help Henry find her? Why?"

Mr. Gold cannot contain his growing smile. _This is far simpler than I imagined_. "No, I did not. And I made Miss Swan sheriff because she owes me a favor, and as sheriff, may well be better equipped when the time comes for her to repay me with that favor."

"And what favor is that?"

By now he is full-out grinning. "Why Regina, if I knew, I would have already asked her for it. Now, I believe we have a transaction to finish?" He mimics her words from earlier.

Regina sighs, her face fallen, clearly still unhappy with her end of the deal. "She's in the car. Drugged, to make less of a fuss."

Mr. Gold sweeps past Regina, and shoves the door open with his cane. The gravel behind his shop crunches beneath his fine leather shoes. A sliver of moon is visible in the sky, though night has not yet fallen. He wants to take it all in, remember what the world looks like on the night he finds Belle again. The air smells like spring, of cold that tries too hard to grip its nails into human flesh, because it knows it will soon be driven away into retreat. Slowly, suddenly nervous-he hasn't felt nervous in decades-he approaches Regina's car, peers into the backseat window.

A young woman sleeps, her chest rising and falling in a soft, steady rhythm. Her matted chestnut hair is in a messy braid, and she wears little white socks that just reach her ankles. No shoes. A gray flannel blanket is haphazardly thrown over her, though the edges of her grubby hospital gown remain visible.

Mr. Gold grips his cane hard. White-knuckled, he uses the cane to gesture toward the window, resisting the compulsion to smash it. "That isn't her," he manages to force out between his gritted teeth. "That isn't _her_."

Regina crosses her arms, clicks a foot impatiently. "Of course it's her. Moe French's daughter, straight out of the asylum. Maybe not as pretty as you like to remember her, but it's her all the same."

"But-but-" he sputters, for the first time finding himself lost for words.

"Oh, were you not expecting the _scars_?" A smirk of amusement toys at the corners of Regina's mouth. She lowers her voice to a soft, terrifying murmur. "Remember, _Rumpelstiltskin_, I told you about what happened after you banished her? The monster's _whore_, scourged by whips and fire? Not even the spell that brought us all to this realm could heal those scars. The only part I lied about was her death. She'd probably be better off that way, though."

He can feel how fast his heart is pounding, and grips his cane even tighter, wanting to beat Regina with it harder than he had ever hit Moe French.

Regina continues, voice like the darkest of melted chocolate, so sweet is the satisfaction she feels. "It's a good thing her name isn't Belle anymore. Definitely not fitting anymore, wouldn't you agree?"

Mr. Gold finally brings himself to look into the car for a second time. Long white scars crisscross Belle's face, her arms, and what he can see of her legs. As if someone has played tic-tac-toe with steel knives across her flesh.

He does not even turn back to face Regina. "I don't care. She's mine."

...

_A/N: Thank you for the bountiful reviews and love! Keep at it! It's what makes me keep writing, truly. It might be a few days before I can update again (pesky responsibilities, and all that), but I look forward to updating again soon!_


	5. Song

_A/N: This is where things start to get a little more AU, at least in fairy tale world. For the purposes of my story, for the time being I am ignoring what happened the first time that Belle is allowed to leave the castle (her running into Regina, then kisses Rumpelstiltskin, and is sent away). I am just pretending all that hasn't happened. Anyway, enjoy! Please read and review, let me know your thoughts, what you liked, didn't like, etc. I want to make my readers happy!_

_P.S. The song in this is called "Bitter Boy" by Kate Rusby._

...

For days, Rumpelstiltskin felt unsettled, unease creeping through his skin and resting in his bones. The source? The girl who scrubbed the floors and dusted his trinkets, and all the while she cheerily hummed. His concentration was quite broken by the sound of it, as he struggled to watch his wheel spin, the coarse straw transform into delicate gold thread, make his mind go deliberately blank. Her humming made it impossible.

"Would you stop that humming?" There was a bite of agitation in Rumpelstiltskin's voice.

Belle's hands stopped their cleaning as she turned to him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Please?" he sighed.

"But it's so quiet in here. I thought a little song might lighten the gloom," Belle explained, as she resumed her floor-scrubbing.

"Humming is not singing." Struck with a sudden idea, Rumpelstiltskin asked her, with more than a trace of enthusiasm. "Do you sing?"

She could not manage to choke down her laugh. "No, I am afraid I'm a very poor singer. I loved to sing as a child, until my father hired a bard at our castle so he wouldn't have to listen to me anymore."

Rumpelstiltskin's face fell. "Are you sure you don't want to at least try?"

Belle again stopped cleaning. She set her rag to the side, got off of her hands and knees to sit cross-legged on the floor. Her blue eyes twinkled. "Do you want to make a deal?"

He rubbed his hands together in excitement. "That depends on the terms of the deal, dearie."

The corners of Belle's lips stretched into a half-smile. "I will sing you a song, if, in exchange, you tell me a story. Any story of my choosing." As Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth to argue, Belle continued, "I don't get out much anymore. I think the least I deserve is a story to remind me of the outside world."

His brows furrowed for a moment, considering the contract. "A deal it is, then. Do I get to pick the song?"

"Of course not. I know so few songs. Do you want to hear what I was humming?" She stretched out, leaning back against the palms of her hands flat on the floor.

_There's something so feline-like about her_, Rumpelstiltskin noted. _Kitten or lioness?_ But he answers, "Yes."

Belle cleared her throat for several seconds, suddenly nervous, wishing she had not suggested the deal at all, honestly believing that Rumpelstiltskin would not agree.

"Are you going to sit there clearing your throat all day or are you going to sing for me as promised?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, with a touch of irony.

She stuck out her tongue at him in distaste, and finally finished clearing her throat. Her voice shook as she began, "T_here was a boy, a bitter boy, whose golden heart I saw gleaming. I thought I'd win the heart within, but now I know that I was dreaming. But I will rise, and I will sing, until I know I can't conceal it. Because I hold._.." Belle halted, glaring daggers at her master. He had his hands clamped over his ears. "I warned you I'm a terrible singer."

Rumpelstiltskin let out a characteristic giggle. "I thought you were exaggerating. Clearly not."

Belle continued to glower. "I was singing from my heart, you know."

With those words, Rumpelstiltskin's laughter trailed off. "And what does that mean?" He tried to recall the words she had been singing, rather than her shaky, out-of-key voice.

She crossed her arms, obstinate. "It's a song that has always meant a lot to me. As a child, I knew I would likely be married to someone who did not love me, some man who saw me as nothing more than an object. And I dreamt I could make someone like that love me." She paused a moment, gathering her courage. "But it's all irrelevant now, I suppose." She seemed very intrigued by the floor, as she lowered her gaze to it.

His mind raced. _Why would she sing a song about tragic, bitter, unreturned love? Could she be...? No, never_. Rumpelstiltskin assured himself he was simply reading too much into it. But even that scared him, that he could dare to hope-

"So where's my story?" Belle asked. "After the humiliation I've been subjected to, you need to complete your end of the deal."

He swiveled around, to face his spinning wheel instead of her. "I have a better idea, dearie. I would like to spin some gold while I spin you my tale," and here he chuckled at his own little joke, "so you like to go to town and fetch some straw for me? I am nearly out."

Belle's anger evaporated, entirely taken aback. "Town? You trust me to leave? And to come back? Are you sure this isn't some way of getting out of telling me a story?" She was suspicious.

"If you're as smart as I've come to believe you are, dearie, then you won't come back." His tone was hard, brittle; Belle had not heard Rumpelstiltskin's voice sound like that since she had first arrived, and he had been so demanding and cruel to her. Time together had certainly softened them toward one another, until now.

Belle pretended not to notice his abrupt change in attitude, feigning ignorance rather than displaying her hurt feelings for him to mock. "All right then, straw it is."

...

Clad in a sea-colored turquoise cloak, hood over her head, with a hand-woven basket hanging on her arm, Belle strode in the direction of the nearest town. The weather was beautiful, as the sunlight streamed through the leaves of the ancient oak trees, and wildflowers of all colors grew along the path. But Belle was far too occupied to appreciate it.

She was unsure of what exactly she intended with this little excursion. By taking the basket, she did, ostensibly, plan on buying enough straw to fill it, and return to Rumpelstiltskin. Their deal, to save her kingdom from ogres, was for forever, after all. But still...That edge in his voice. It scared her, crushed her. _Was it the song that made him so irritated, or am I truly that bad of a singer? She shook herself. Even if I am such a bad singer, it matters not. I warned him, and he asked me to sing anyway. He got what was coming to him. If he's so petty to be annoyed with me over that, then he doesn't deserve my friendship anyway._

Belle was so deep in thought that she did not notice the figure in the woods.

...

Rumpelstiltskin was lost in his own thoughts. He had not left his spinning wheel, even though he had run out of straw even before Belle left. He could have magicked some straw out of thin air, right in front of him, but did not, just in case, against all odds, that Belle did return. Surely her fury would only increase if she arrived with a heavy basket of straw, only for an enormous pile of it to have materialized in the corner during her absence.

He wondered if Belle would return to him. If she did indeed see a "gleaming heart" in him, as he believed her song had indicated, then she would come back, he assumed. If not, then he was well rid of a nuisance, he assured himself. If she never came back, it was for the best, actually. _No more of these petty little feelings to deal with._

That was when his magic delivered her scream to him.

...

There was no foot-travel involved. With a snap of his fingers, Rumpelstiltskin appeared onto the path, where Belle's scream had come from. There, off to the side, Belle was splayed in the lush grass, screaming and crying out his name. A man in dark clothing, a common bandit, was on top of her, and with one hand he pinned her hands above her head, while with the other he was attempted to hike up her eggshell-blue dress. Belle kicked and bit at the man, fighting back. There was even a gob of saliva on the man's face, where she must have spat at him.

Rumpelstiltskin's eyes flashed darker than ever. "Bastard!" he roared, running at the man. The magic flowed freely, powerfully, through his veins, as he tackled the man away from Belle. A knife appeared in his hand, and he slashed it across the man's throat. Then he stabbed the man, over and over again, watching his shining red blood flow out and stain the grass, stain Rumpelstiltskin's own clothing. "How. Dare. You. Touch. Her," he hissed out with every slam of the blade. The bandit was long dead by now, but Rumpelstiltskin could not stop, until he realized he heard Belle's sobs. Even when he had first taken her from her father, he had never heard Belle cry, until now.

He approached her carefully, as he would a startled doe. Belle was curled up into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest. She had pulled her dress back down and clung to it, full of shame. A spot of blood dribbled out along her throat, where the bandit had held a knife to it.

"Belle," he exhaled. "Belle."

"I-I want to go home," Belle wept. "Can we go home?"

We, echoed in Rumpelstiltskin's mind. She wants to come home with me. "Yes, Belle, let's go home." He gathered the girl, so frail, so almost-broken, into his arms. A click of his fingers, and they were in her room, back at his castle. He placed her on her bed, and Belle crawled underneath the covers, burrowing away.

"Do you want some tea?" he tried, unsure of what else to do.

"Will you stay with me?" Belle whispered. Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed his hand and pulled it to her chest.

Rumpelstiltskin sat on the bed beside her.

"You're so brave," he told her, meaning every word. And then he began to tell her a story about a man who was not so brave.


	6. Awakening

Mr. Gold watches her, asleep in his spare bed, spare bedroom. He tucked her in, folded the sheets in like a cocoon around her. The scars are hidden beneath the covers, save for the one on her gaunt face. Its brightness stands out even against her pale skin, begins at her temple, lines her jaw all the way around until it reaches her delicate chin. His fingers tingle with the desire to trace it, but he resists, unsure of how she'll react to touch. He questions when the drugs will wear off, and what she knows, what she remembers.

_Will she remember me?_ Tries not to think too hard about that. The chances are slim.

He leaves her side for a moment, to fetch the steaming teapot from his kitchen. Back in the spindly rocking chair in the corner of her room, he pours the water over a little pouch of Earl Grey in his favorite chipped cup. Lets it steep for far too long as he forgets to drink it, too intent on watching the rise and fall of her chest, to ascertain she keeps breathing.

The room will soon become home for her, he hopes, having prepared it two days ago. A little bookshelf sits beside the door. He has compiled it with everything from a massive, leather-bound volume of all the works of Shakespeare to a colorful, children's edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonder Land. There's even a set of Jane Austen novels that he himself has never bothered reading-he knows she loves romance novels, and wonders if that's still true.

It is not until the sun rises, pouring in through the open curtains-he opened them just for her-that she stirs. Then again, Mr. Gold recalls, she's always loved mornings.

...

The girl's eyes flutter open, close again. The surroundings are too different, unfamiliar, and she's afraid. Maybe when she opens her eyes again she'll see the bare stone room that she remembers far too well. She tries again, and the room remains the same. Pretty lavender walls, a lush feather bed beneath her, and light, so much light she wants to scoop it into a pail and carry it around with her.

She struggles to escape the blankets her body is being smothered by, twisting and wiggling until her arms are freed. Sits up, swivels her head from side to side, taking in this new place.

"You're awake." A soft voice comes from the corner of the room, and her eyes dart in that direction, shocked she hadn't seen the man already. He sits in a rocking chair, leaning forward over a long cane, though he is decidedly still, like a statue.

"Who are you?" Her voice is scratchy, whispery from disuse. She should be scared, she knows, but she abandoned fear too long ago.

The man stands up, puts his weight on his cane before walking over to her bed. She can see his face better now, brown hair falling into it, obscuring its wrinkles. He has brown eyes and thin lips, stretched into a minimal smile. "Do you remember me?"

She squints at him, trying to place his face. A memory tugs on her, but when she tries to follow it, abruptly finds herself at the end of its rope, cut off from the rest of her mind. "I..." the girl hesitates. "Maybe. What's your name?"

_Rumpelstiltskin_. "I am Mr. Gold." He gives a little mock bow, as best as he can with the aid of his cane, and he suddenly seems even more familiar to her. Even so, she is lost, and he can see it in her eyes. "Do you remember your name?"

She nods. "Sophie." It has been rehearsed, drilled into her mind day after day. If she was ever known by another name she has long since forgotten it. "I'm Sophie."

"Sophie," Mr. Gold repeats, and she instinctively likes the way his Scottish accent caresses his every word. He holds out his free hand. "It is lovely to meet you."

She reaches out, and again he sees the scars that line her too-thin arm, and tries not to flinch. They still take him aback, though he knows he will get used to it quickly enough. Her hand takes his, and she finds she likes the handshake, too. His grip is firm, but not overly so, and his hand is dry and cool. On his part, he is just terrified of crushing her bony fingers.

"Why am I here? Are you a doctor?" She finally has the courage to ask.

"I am not a doctor. I am your new caretaker," he decides to tell her. Just as you used to be my caretaker.

"What does that mean, exactly?" Her bright blue eyes are inquisitive, like a child analyzing the sight of a new, exotic animal, but he is so grateful that she does not fear him.

"I will look after you from now on, make sure you are happy and healthy, far better than the..." he trails off.

"Asylum, I heard the doctor say." She lets out a tiny, forlorn laugh. "They thought I was crazy because I couldn't remember anything. I tried so hard."

"Well, I shall do my best to help you remember, my dear. And if you do not, then that is quite all right, as well. I hope you may create new memories for yourself, here."

And the smile she bestows upon him was incandescent.

...

Sophie stares at the shower-bathtub combination in the bathroom. It smells nice in here, like clean, fresh soap, and the tiled walls and matching floors glimmered prettily, but she cannot not fathom how these numerous steel knobs worked, how to make the water appear. _How am I to bathe with no water?_ She clutches the fluffy purple towel closer around her body, and bites her lip. She cannot even recall the last time she's bathed with more than a bucket of cold water and a dirty rag, and she is certain she has never used one of these contraptions.

"Mr. Gold?" she cracks the door open and calls out.

He is there in an instant, striding down the hallway. He averts his eyes from her near-nakedness. "Yes, Sophie?"

"Um." She feels suddenly embarrassed, but opens the door wider, to let him in. "How does this," gestures toward the tub, "work?"

A grin slides across his face, rather against his will. A few twists and turns of the knobs, and the tub begins to fill with steaming water. "There you are."

Sophie gasps. "Oh! It's like magic!"

"It is, isn't it?" For the second time, he bows in her direction. "I'll leave you to it, dear."

...

For the first time since he's been in Storybrooke-so long, too long-Mr. Gold has his table set for two. Two plates edged with a pattern of pink roses, two sets of cutlery, and a tray of tea in the middle. Stacks of warm pancakes slathered in butter and maple syrup sit on each plate.

Sophie bounds down the stairs like a puppy. Her hair streams down her back, still damp, and she wears the dress that Mr. Gold had laid out for her, a yellow sundress of light cotton that breezes just past her bare ankles. She pulls out the chair opposite Mr. Gold and sits, but when she realizes that he is staring at her, turns a shade of maroon. Her hands slide up her arms instinctively, tries unsuccessfully to hide her scars there.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles. "I know they aren't the prettiest to look at. Next time I'll wear something else to cover them up better. I can't do much about this one though." She points out the scar on her face, follows its long, familiar line with her fingertip.

"I wasn't looking at those," he assures her. He wants to ask her about them, see if she remembers how she got them, and, possibly, if the person who gave them to her is in Storybrooke for him to destroy-but he knows better than to ruin what he hopes to turn into a happy day for Sophie. One of many happy days, he hopes. "Have some breakfast."

Sophie reaches for the tea, and her hand hovers momentarily over the two cups before she selects the chipped one. She pours the hot tea from the mismatched teapot, blows on it, and takes a sip. "Ah. I haven't had tea in so long," she sighs in contentment.

"You shouldn't use a broken cup, dear. You'll hurt yourself."

She glances at the cup in her hand, and shrugs. "I like this one. It has character."

And in another first for Mr. Gold, he trusts his most precious belonging-no, second most precious-in the hands of someone else, and sips his tea from an unbroken cup instead.

...

_A/N: Thank you for reading, my lovelies! Please leave a review with any suggestions, comments, or critiques you may have. As a few of my readers were disappointed with my disfiguring of Belle, I did decide to make her face far less scarred than intended, and I'm rather pleased with the result. Any other issues or things you'd like to see, let me know._


	7. Roses

When Rumpelstiltskin had finished his story, his story of the cowardly man who acquired power, and became cowardly no more, and lost everything he loved in the process, Belle finally released his hand. By this point, she was barely half-awake. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, breathing slow and even, and Rumpelstiltskin was simply grateful that most of her horror from the bandit in the woods had dissipated.

Still, Belle attempted to argue. "You're not a coward," she said.

"Well there's no need for bravery when one has infinite power," he replied, trying to sound amused, light-hearted.

"You are brave. You saved me," she persisted.

"Again. Infinite power. Now get some sleep. I have kept you awake far too long."

She sighed into her pillow. "All right. And, thank you."

Rumpelstiltskin smiled weakly at her, put out the candles with a blink of his eye, and left his maid to catch up on her sleep. His spinning wheel awaited him, full of new feelings that he wished to forget.

...

"Do you mind if I take a day off from cleaning today?" Belle asked. She was wearing her usual blue dress, her hair in a neat braid hanging down her back. As normal as she appeared, Rumpelstiltskin could see how pale she was, and the dark circles under her eyes that indicated her lack of sleep. Her feet were bare, toes curled against the stone floor.

"My estate will not clean itself, dearie." He was trying to be at least a tad harsher than usual, widen the distance between them, after she held his hand so fervently the evening before.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's rather clean as it is. Won't accumulate that much dirt over just a day off, you know. And I've already brought you your tea." She nodded at the table, where the tea tray sat, untouched for the time being. Though, Rumpelstiltskin noticed, his favorite cup was already filled nearly to the brim with steaming tea.

"And what book shall you be reading on your day off? Perhaps you've found a new book full of magical creatures and how to defeat them? Or a romance? Though I'm not sure my library has many of those."

Belle wrinkled her nose. "I hate romances. So foolish." Rumpelstiltskin recalled the love story he had found her reading one night, and wondered briefly why she was lying. However, Belle continued, unabashed. "The weather feels so warm today. I can feel the sunlight through the windows, and the castle is not nearly as drafty as it usually is. Can I explore the gardens?"

He stopped spinning, found his teacup, and took a long sip. After he smacked his lips-Belle always made the perfect cup of tea, with just enough sugar-he raised an eyebrow. "You're a gardener, as well as a maid and cook?"

She shook her head, but a small smile grew upon her face, and Rumpelstiltskin was glad to see some of the timidness leave her. "I'm no gardener. Any interest I might find in the garden is for myself, not for yourself or your estate."

"Then the garden is yours, dearie. I trust you to stray no farther from the castle than that?" He pointedly did not reference what had happened when she had left, albeit with his permission, the afternoon before.

...

The garden was surrounded by a low stone wall that only reached Belle's waist. There was no break in the enclosure to allow for entrance, she realized as she circled it, so she pulled up her dress and awkwardly climbed over into the flower beds, carrying her little bucket of gardening tools with her. The soil squished underneath her naked feet, and she relished the feeling of it, damp and warm and somehow clean. She turned her face up to the sun; she relished that, too, not having been able to enjoy herself amid the cool winds and clouds when she was outside yesterday.

After a few moments, Belle began to walk amongst the flowers, if they could even be called that. There were roots buried in the dirt, with stems growing above them, and a few even had some unopened bulbs at the very top. But none of the flowers bloomed, and most seemed dried-out, sickly, though not from lack of sun or water. It rained enough, and there was certainly enough sun for them to thrive, Belle decided, so there simply must not have enough tender care for the flowers to survive comfortably.

The trellis was by far the saddest sight. Near one of the edges of the garden stood a criss-crossed structure, built of wood that had long begun to rot. Vines grew in its every crevice, and as Belle grew closer, she realized that they were not vines, but thorns, dark and sharp and menacing.

"Roses!" she gasped with pleasure, despite the fact that no roses actually grew there. But she recognized that several rosebushes grew here, or, at least, were intended to.

This is where she would begin, she knew. The rotting trellis would have to do, as Belle was no carpenter, but she could make it work, with good, strong rose plants to keep it standing upright. Belle set down her bucket, and pulled out the large set of glittering garden shears.

...

Rumpelstiltskin leapt over the garden wall. Time to check on the girl, he had decided, concerned that she had come back inside long ago. He was certain that she would immediately return once she had discovered the unsalvageable state of his garden. When he had built the castle, long ago, he had magicked together this little garden, too, and then proceeded to ignore its existence altogether. It took more than magic to save dying flowers, and he could not be bothered with it. Surely Belle would not waste her time on the mess either? He expected to come upon her curled in some spot of grass with a book, enraptured in her own fantasies, to escape in the only way she could. And, not for the first time, she managed to surprise the all-powerful Rumpelstiltskin.

He found Belle crouching in front of what was once his set of rosebushes, garden shears clicking and clacking wildly as she snipped off thorns and other dead ends. She didn't appear to notice his approach, but as Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth to announce his presence, Belle whirled around, rising to her feet.

"Hello," was all she said, and rather sheepishly at that. She wiped her hands on her dress, and he saw that they were caked in soil and blood, leaving streaks of brown and red on the formerly pristine fabric.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her, masking the concern that was emerging in his tone.

"Oh, yes. Just the thorns, you see." She gestured back at the violent plant. "It doesn't hurt that bad, really. I'll just bandage them up when I've finished."

"No, no. Before dinner you will apply a potion to your hands. I have some lying around, I'm sure, for such practicalities."

"Okay." She seemed absentminded, almost dreamy.

"What _are_ you doing, dearie?" His curiosity finally got the better of him, as little as he wanted to indulge her foolish fancies. He has asked her the same thing when she dragged all the curtains off of the windows.

"Pruning the roses."

He giggled. "In case you hadn't noticed, there are no roses."

"But there will be, in a few months, as long as I tend to them well."

Rumpelstiltskin wagged a finger. "As long as your rose-growing does not impede your other chores."

"It won't. I've gotten the majority of the work out of the way. After today, it will just be watering them daily, and trimming them a few times a week." She bent over the trellis again, resumed her attack on the dead bits of rosebush.

He did not leave, watching the girl at her work. "Why the roses? Aren't there easier plants to grow here? Like the tulips or the daffodils?" he asked, glancing over the unopened flowers.

"I like roses. Besides, if its so easy to do, what's the point? The tulips and daffodils will thrive on their own, once they see the roses do it. The roses need my help the most."

"And the thorns?"

She faced him, blue eyes squinting through the sunlight. "Well, they wouldn't be roses without a few thorns, now would they? Anything worth desiring is also worth a few pricks in the process, I think." But the open gashes on her palms testified to far more than just a few pricks, and Rumpelstiltskin questioned how willing Belle was to allow herself to be hurt in order to achieve something beautiful. And in a perverse way, in a way that made him hate himself, Rumpelstiltskin found himself to be pleased with it, and with Belle's bloody hands so prepared to make these roses grow.

"What color with they be?"

"What?" Rumpelstiltskin broke out of his reverie.

"The roses. What color will they be?"

"No need to spoil the surprise. We'll just wait and see, dearie."

...

_A/N: What did you all think of this chapter? It's a little less fluffy than usual, and I'm worried the whole rose/love metaphor kind of sucks. Advice/critiques/encouragement please? I update way faster when I get reviews because I love knowing that my writing continues to be appreciated._


	8. Conversation

Mr. Gold found himself spending less and less time at his shop. He had already turned the sign on the door to "Closed," and flips through his contracts in a rush. Granny's rent was overdue, but for once he cannot force himself to care. She'll have the money whenever she has the money, he tells himself, however out of character it was. On an ordinary day, he would stalk over to the nearly-always empty bed-and-breakfast, and proceed to loom and threaten and intimidate, but today it would take him from far more enjoyable enterprises.

_Belle_. And then, _Sophie_, he reminds himself.

Cane in hand, he walks right out of his shop door, the little bell ringing above him.

Sophie waits for him.

...

His house smells like a combination of tea and-what is that other smell? It's familiar, but not quite identifiable.

"Hello? Sophie?" Mr. Gold calls out, setting down a gift he has brought her on the kitchen table. Every day he comes home he is afraid she'll have left, as if she will suddenly come to realize what a monster her host is, or Regina will have whisked her away back to the asylum. Other times he fears that she simply will not be there, never have been there, and it was all some sort of fanciful delusion he has dreamed up.

But here she is, real and whole, right where she is supposed to be: wandering into his kitchen in a book-addled daze. She wears a pair of green flannel pajamas-_his_, not that he ever really wore them-and the way the top tends to hang off her shoulders creates a tinge of hunger in him, one that he has not felt in a long time. It's been so long he can no longer name it, but there it is regardless. Mr. Gold pushes it aside. _The last thing this girl needs is a lonely old man-monster-lusting after her._ But she is looking more well-fed and that pleases him in a more wholesome way.

"What have you been reading?" He nods at the book clutched in her hand, and wonders how many times he had asked her that question before he forced her to leave, that first time.

"_Persuasion_, it's called. Jane Austen. I love to read, but I don't recognize any of the authors on the shelf. Odd, but her name seemed pleasant enough," Sophie replies. "Have you eaten dinner yet? Do you want some mac-and-cheese?"

That's what it is, the smell. Microwaved orange cheese melted over a sorry excuse for pasta. It had been sitting in one of his cupboards for months. He gives Sophie a small smile. "So you've mastered using the microwave?"

She sits down at the little table, takes a sip of tea from her new favorite cup. "Mm-hmm. It's rather easy. I already ate, but I saved some for you." Her eyes catch upon the potted plant, a new addition to the scenery she has grown so used to over only a few days. "What's this?" Fingers reach out, tentatively brush the leaves, then the vibrant purple petals of the five small blossoms.

"It's an African Violet. I thought you might like having a few flowers," he murmurs.

Sophie leaps out of her seat, and before he figures out what has happened, her arms encircle his neck and shoulders in an embrace. He closes his eyes, inhales her scent-she smells like his soap. A few moments, and she's pulled away, all attention back on her new plant. "Thank you so much, Mr. Gold!" she squeals. "I promise I'll take good care of it."

She's so childlike it threatens to break what's left of his heart.

...

In the sitting room, Mr. Gold has lit two of his antique oil lamps, one for Sophie and one for himself. He reads the newspaper, occasionally sips at a glass of wine. Sophie has wine, too, though Mr. Gold carefully watered it down, and he allows her to sit in his usual armchair. She sinks into the corduroy cushions, resumes her novel, or, at least, tries to.

Instead, Sophie finds herself studying Mr. Gold, the planes of his face. The lines are deepest between his eyebrows, as if he has spent most of his life frowning, or furrowing his brow in concentration. His nose is long and slightly hooked, and there are dimples in his cheeks that survive even without a smile. But Sophie has seen him smile before, and she knows that when he does, the dimples widen and deepen, although the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes are shallow, barely there, and she recognizes how lucky she is to have seen so many of his rare grins.

She is so intent, Sophie does not even realize when Mr. Gold begins to stare back. "What are you looking at?" he asks her softly, curiosity unfeigned.

"You." Her admission is simple, unembarrassed.

"Ah. Then I'm sorry for you." His small attempt at a joke.

"Why?"

"I'm afraid the face of a gnarled old man is hardly much to look at."

A giggle. "You're not that old. Or gnarled, for that matter."

"You flatter me, dear."

"And you don't think I know a monster when I see one?" Sophie laughs again, but it's a darker, less light-hearted one. "I know how everyone stared at me in the asylum. My face has improved over time, saved for this damn thing." Her index finger points out the scar along her jaw; the gesture is wholly unnecessary, as Mr. Gold has already memorized all of the lines of her face. She continues, "But the rest of me is so-" she fishes for the right word, "_monstrous_." She pulls up the sagging shoulders of her nightshirt, to cover up the deep scars that reside there.

Mr. Gold had thought her innocence might break him, but no, it is this-all that she's been through, all of it his fault-that will finish the job. "You don't have to do that. There's nothing wrong with a few scars." He wants to tell her she's beautiful, feels the words pooling on his tongue, but cannot quite spit them out.

Sophie smiles ruefully. "It's what's on the inside that counts, right? So you hush about being old. It doesn't matter to me."

He lets her words sink in for a few moments, before he asks, "Sophie, are you happy here?"

She wants to laugh, tease him, but she can tell by the intensity in his gaze that Mr. Gold finds nothing amusing in his question. "I'm very happy here. Well, happier than I can recall, at least." But then Sophie bites her lip.

"What is it?"

"I would like to go outside, though. Like you do. Meet people. I could keep you company at your shop."

Mr. Gold detects the desperate hope in her voice, and realizes how selfish he has been, keeping his precious girl hidden away, all to himself. "You could," he agrees. "But first," and the disgust is evident in his tone, "we'll have to have a little chat Madame Mayor."

...

_A/N: Ugh. I hate hate hate this chapter. But I hope next chapter will be way better. Review please! It's what keeps me writing!_


	9. Dance

When she came back into the castle, Belle's hair was thick with sticks and leaves and tangles of thorns, and her dress was beyond salvation-covered in dirt and a few streaks of her own, handprinted blood. She tracked mud in from the gardens on her bare feet, apparently having forgotten that she herself would need to clean it up later.

"Rumple?" she called out, uncertain, her voice echoing through the hall. Then, self-conscious of the nickname she has only ever used in her mind, "Rumpelstiltskin?"

No answer.

She shrugged, went in the direction of what has by now officially become her bedroom. The carpet felt nice underneath her feet, but not as nice as the garden did. Belle swung open the door to her room, and gasped.

An enormous marble tub sat in the middle of her room, edged in pretty, wavy patterns of solid gold. It was filled to the top with water, and Belle hungrily watched the steam rise.

"I figured you'd want a bath, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin appeared almost out of nowhere, strolling into the room behind Belle. He'd been waiting for her, obviously. "Can't have you dirtying up the whole castle."

"I can't remember the last time I've had a bath!" Belle squealed. Before Rumpelstiltskin knew what was happening, her arms were thrown around his shoulders. "Thank you!"

He struggled not to enjoy her embrace, but Belle smelled like roses and flowers underneath all that dirt, and her arms were cool against his neck. Rumpelstiltskin took Belle by the shoulders, pushed her gently away from him. "No need to get me all filthy as well," he said, attempting to keep his usual lilt of humor in his voice.

Belle crossed her arms, a smirk emerging on her face-that little half-smile that told everyone who knew her well (like Rumpelstiltskin) that she was trying not to laugh. "Oh, you just shoo and let me take my bath. I'll come down and make our dinner when I'm finished."

He played at pouting, sticking out his bottom lip and making sad-eyes at her. Belle stuck out her tongue in response, and a giggle escaped her.

"Fine," Rumpelstiltskin said. He turned the lock on the inside of Belle's door, turned to Belle briefly and waggled his eyebrows, teasingly. The door slammed in mock-rage as he left.

Belle raised an eyebrow herself. "I could've sworn there wasn't a lock on there ever before," she muttered. She supposed it was something to do with trust-allowing her a space of her own where he, at least theoretically, couldn't intrude-and that thought, the one of trust, made Belle smile.

...

Belle waited for the water to get cold for nearly an hour, wanting to get every ounce of pleasure that she could, until she finally realized that the water was magicked somehow-for it stayed hot and steaming without growing even a degree cooler. She did, however, decide it would be rude for her to languish in the bathtub forever whilst Rumpelstiltskin waited for her to make dinner. Wrapping a towel around herself, as the air in her bedroom was positively frosty in comparison to her bath, she dried her limbs and hair the best she could, and tried to rub away the goosepimples that emerged atop her flesh.

Her usual blue dress, now covered in dirt and grime, had disappeared, Belle found. In its place, laid out across her bed, was a gown of seafoam-colored green, made of a light and fluttery material that, when she had put it on, reminded Belle of butterflies. The gown was not heavy or ornate, not like that blasted dress of layers and layers of starched yellow tulle. This one floated about her, although the gossamer fabric was not so fragile as to be utterly sheer and revealing. In addition, Belle was grateful for the overall coverage that the dress offered her. It was cut high in the front, far higher than she was used to with her old ball gowns, although the back was low, baring her white back and shoulder blades, it was elegant, too. To top it off, Belle discovered a pair of matching silk slippers beside the door, and she slid them onto her feet.

_Well, I certainly hope this outfit isn't for cooking and cleaning_, it occurred to her.

By the time Belle made her way down to the dining room, night had fallen, and although the curtains still sat on the floor in front of their respective windows, no sunlight beamed in, as she was used to. She was an early riser and usually early to bed, and she could not recall the last time she had been in here, so late in the evening. The light of a few stars glimmered, creating small dots of brightness throughout the large room, and the rest of the room was lit by an array of tall, violet candles.

She expected to see Rumpelstiltskin at his spinning wheel, but instead he was already seated at one end of the table the gold in his skin particularly striking in the candlelight. At the other end of the table a chair was pulled out, presumably waiting for Belle. Instead, she dragged the chair across the floor until she was sitting beside Rumpelstiltskin.

"What are you doing, dearie?" he asked, taken aback.

"I don't want to have to shout across the table in order to speak with you, you know." She paused, and with a tone of uncertainty in her voice added, "This room is so lovely at night."

His eyes surveyed her, taking in the new gown he had acquired for her, and her damp curls the hung loosely around her face, neck, and shoulders. "It is," he murmured in agreement.

"What do you want me to make for dinner?"

Then Rumpelstiltskin clapped his hands, back to his usual gleeful self. "No cooking for you tonight, dearie! I've procured something special for us tonight." He snapped his fingers, and two dishes of gold appeared in front of the pair, each filled with the brimmed with mounds of a shiny, white substance that Belle did not recognize.

She picked up her spoon, which had also appeared with what was apparently "dinner," and tentatively poked the mysterious stuff. It must have been soft, for her spoon left a mark. "What is this?"

He giggled uncontrollably. "I suspected you'd never tried it before. Go ahead, give it a taste."

Belle gave him a sidelong look, but she obeyed, taking a scoop of it in her spoon, and brought it to her lips. But she stopped there. "Oh! It's so cold."

"Of course it is, dearie." He had some in his spoon now. "That's how it tastes best." And he took a bite of it himself.

She watched Rumpelstiltskin's tongue snake out and lick his lips. A soft sigh arose in her, but Belle quickly smothered it by shoving her spoon into her mouth and swallowing. Her eyes widened in shock. "This is delicious! It's so sweet and sugary, but creamy at the same time. She cocked her head to the side. "What is it called, anyway?"

"Ice cream. A delicacy from some faraway kingdom," he replied, waving his hand.

"Can we have this for dinner every night?" Belle had already devoured half of her bowl.

He wagged a finger at her. "Ah ah ah. Wouldn't want to spoil my housekeeper like that, now would I? Might make her lazy."

She just smirked at him. "You don't need me for a housekeeper."

Not for the first time, she had managed to surprise him. "What?"

"You know. I'm hardly a housekeeper. I may cook and clean, but we both know that's not the reason why you bargained for me in the first place."

"Then why would I have made a deal for such a little pest if not for the housework?"

Belle stood up abruptly, and held her hands out to Rumpelstiltskin. "Do you want to dance?"

Again, "What?"

"Dance. With me. I've got this nice dress and the room is so pretty right now, I just thought..." She trailed off, and the smile she wore was soft and sincere.

"But-but-there's no music," he sputtered.

She crossed her arms and continued to stare at him. Finally, she waved her arms theatrically.

"Now what are you doing?"

"I'm imitating you! Magic! Use magic to create music! Or don't!" With sudden violence, she grabbed Rumpelstiltskin's hands and pulled him out of his chair. "We're dancing, whether you like it or not, Mister Dark One." She placed one of his hands on her waist and grasped his other hand in hers.

"Dancing? With the monster?" he tried.

"Shush. Since you refuse to take the lead," as they stood motionless, "I suppose I will."

At the very least, Rumpelstiltskin obliged Belle by following her lead as she began to spin them around the dining room. He figured it was the least he could do, for his housekeeper who had eaten some foreign ice cream and promptly lost her wits. Although he attempted to keep a decorous amount of space between them, the floating fabric of her gown kept brushing up against and teasing his leather-clad legs. Without thinking, he lifted his arm into the air and Belle twirled underneath it before she wound her way back facing him, this time closer than before.

"See? You can dance," Belle teased.

He shrugged. "I suppose that's the magic. I never used to be able to dance."

Something in Belle's expression changed as a new thought clicked into place. "Used to? What do you mean? Haven't you always been magical?"

Rumpelstiltskin cursed his own absentmindedness. He remembered the story he had told her, about losing his son, but never let on that it was his new acquisition of the Dark One's powers that ultimately caused it, simply an addition to his constant cowardice. "No," he finally told her.

Her movements slowed, so that their dancing paused, and Belle and Rumpelstiltskin were left in the middle of the room, watching one another, hand in hand. She peered at his face. "Does that mean you used to be..."

"A human being? A man? Yes." He lowered his eyes, let his arm fall from around her waist. He tried to loosen his other hand from Belle's grip, but she tightened it instead, squeezing his fingers underneath her own.

"You are human. You don't see it, but I do. And that's why you brought me here."

"Why?"

Belle leaned in closer, and Rumpelstiltskin felt her cool breath tickle his ear. "Because you were lonely."

...

_A/N: Sorry it's been about two months since I updated. Life has just been crazy lately, and it's hard to get inspiration for this fic when there's no Rumbelle on television! But, I hope this chapter makes up for it. You're welcome to leave prompts/things you'd like to see for future chapters in your reviews, and please review. I love to read what people think of this!_


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